


Overgrown Clover

by Square_Orange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bees, M/M, Retirementlock, Sherlock is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:12:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Square_Orange/pseuds/Square_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You must talk to your bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overgrown Clover

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [За высокой травой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717974) by [thunder_witch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunder_witch/pseuds/thunder_witch)



The first day Sherlock met her, he loved her. John saw it in the way his expression grew soft and he stood still and calm, letting any tension escape with a content sigh. He stared down at her through his net, and watched her workers circle her plump body with frantic energy. He named her Martha. 

They both worked together in planting their garden. John lay down a row of strawberry plants, and tended the old hawthorn tree. Sherlock set down a fragrant bed of lavender and rosemary, and insisted on allowing clover to spring up on the lawn. It was rarely mowed. 

Martha’s hive gave a small yield the first year, a better one the next, and by the third year there was so much excess honey that they ran out of jars. The garden looked unkempt, but it was well-loved and healthy. 

The kitchen table was pushed up against the window, and Sherlock looked out across the grass towards the hive every morning over breakfast. John sat close beside him. Their weathered hands were always joined as they ate and read the newspaper. Buzzing wings sounded like love songs in the Summer months at midday. 

John proposed in August, in the early evening when the sunlight was a burned yellow and the air was a little cooler. Sherlock clung to his shoulders and snuffled at his neck, inhaling every trace of clean working sweat and the smell of cut leaves in his hair. Through the haze in his eyes, he saw a bee on its homeward journey stop to take a sip from a sprig of lavender nearby. 

“John asked me to marry him,” he told her.

* * *

One afternoon some years later, they clambered from their car to be met with heavy air that promised downpours for later. John went straight to the front door and rooted out his keys, but paused when Sherlock didn’t follow and instead headed around the back of the house.

John kept his distance but turned the corner after him, and saw him make for the hive amidst the grass. Sherlock threw off his coat and lay it on a patch that was bare of clover, and sat down. His back was hunched.

John leaned against the patio fence and watched his husband’s shoulders shake with grief. 

They had just got back from the hospital, so Sherlock had to tell his bees the news.  

* * *

You must talk to your bees. The queen must hear of every major event on the day it happens. They are family, but they get easily insulted. If the queen is not told something important, she will take offence and leave, bringing the entire hive population with her.

That is why, in the cold dawn of mid March, John picked through the overgrown grass to reach Martha’s hive. His eyes were puffy and his breathing shallow. The lump in his throat almost stopped him from speaking, but after removing the top pieces he nodded to himself in resolution. He sat back in the dewy grass and watched a few bees fly out of their home and buzz around him with curiosity. 

“Sherlock. He… He died in his sleep last night.”

One bee landed on the back of his hand. They regarded each other, John with tears threatening. 

  
The bee flew away on its own when it had looked long enough. The garden grew wild in time, and the clover took over. 

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to apologise.


End file.
